A Difficult Young Man

by Martin Boyd

  Dick began fidgeting to return to the tennis courts, and we stood up. Dominic moved over to Lord Dilton and asked quietly but firmly if he might speak to him, and they went out of the room together. To conceal my feelings I pretended to be interested in a hideous oriental dagger which Colonel Rodgers, twenty years earlier, had given Mrs Tunstall, as Lady Dilton then was, for a wedding present.

  Dick could generally beat me at singles, except on sudden and surprising occasions when I was apparently ‘overshadowed’ as the spiritualists say, by the ghost of some defunct champion, or possessed by a demon of tennis from outside myself, and became invincible, which infuriated him. Back on the courts, however, expecting every moment to see a stunned and dazed Dominic appear to announce that we had been ordered off the place, I could not hit a ball, and Dick said it was not worth playing with me, so we went back to the house. On the massive flight of steps I saw Dominic, looking serious but by no means affronted, talking to an also serious but benevolent looking Lord Dilton. When we came up to them Lord Dilton spoke to me with more kindness and interest than he usually showed me, though he was always quite amiable, if remote. He mentioned that I was going into the Church, and made the joke about keeping Mr Woodhall alive for another ten years.

  ‘You’ll go up to Oxford, I suppose,’ he said.

  ‘No, Cambridge, I think,’ I replied. ‘We used to go to Oxford, but for the last three generations we’ve gone to Cambridge.’ I did not say this with any snobbish intention, but simply because my mind moved in these long periods of history. I may have done Dominic’s cause some good, by unintentionally reminding Lord Dilton that three generations in our sight were but as yesterday, whereas they were the entire extent of his own family’s history. He smiled and said:

  ‘I should have thought a Tory like you would have gone to Oxford. Well, I must go and look over my speech on swine-fever. You’ve no idea what laborious days we landowners live. But I expect your father tells you.’ He chuckled comfortably, shook hands with us, showing particular warmth to Dominic, and went indoors.

  As we rode away across the park, I asked in the somewhat sneaking and eager voice that boys use to acquire information behind the scenes:

  ‘Well, what did he say?’

  ‘He said that he could not say anything definite until he knew what Dad thought about it,’ said Dominic.

  ‘Wasn’t he angry?’

  ‘Not at all. He was very kind.’

  ‘D’you mean to say that he’ll let you have Sylvia?’

  ‘Yes, but he said we mustn’t rush it. He said that he would have to speak to Lady Dilton too.’

  ‘Gosh!’ I exclaimed.

  Dominic was in a calm and sensible mood, but when I showed so much astonishment he said irritably:

  ‘There’s no need to be surprised. Don’t talk in that way.’

  I had forgotten that Lord Dilton did not know of Dominic’s ‘black record,’ of Baba’s maids, and Tamburlaine, and it is probable that in spite of their manner the Tunstalls thought more highly of us than we imagined. We were much the oldest county family in the neighbourhood, and had certain manorial rights over Dilton. In a little panelled room called ‘The Court Room,’ next to the pantry at Waterpark, Austin, exercising one of these rights, had inveigled the late Lord Dilton into doing him homage. Steven had either too much or not enough sense of humour to ask the present peer to go through the ceremony.

  Since the Tunstalls’ arrival into the ranks of the nobility the only marriage of any distinction which they had made was, as we have seen, to Caroline O’Hara, who was also our relative, and the mother of the Italinate trio, the cultivated devils incarnate. They might affect to despise these three, and be glad they had no issue, but when rather beefy country people adopt this attitude towards their brilliant relatives, it is because they know that it is impossible for them to shine in the same way, and there is no other attitude to take except one of frank admiration, which they would find too humiliating. Ariadne Dane entertained in her Florentine villa, where Boccaccio had written part of the Decameron, most of the famous people of the late nineteenth century, great artists and cardinals, poets and dukes, cabinet ministers and musicians, in gatherings of what sounded unsurpassed brilliance, though it is possible that their conversation was not equal to the resounding echoes of their names. The glimpses which Alice gives of the society there made Dilton appear in comparison like the house of a provincial mayor. The same might be said of Aubrey Tunstall’s palatial apartment in Rome.

  Because of these connections, as well as of the antiquity of the Langtons, Lord Dilton may not have thought Dominic an impossible match for Sylvia. He believed that he would inherit Waterpark with the means to keep it up, and therefore was not unduly worried about his inability to find an occupation. It is even possible that the fact that he did not earn his living, and apparently never would, that made Lord Dilton think him eligible. Those who have grown up since the 1914 war may not realize how completely the attitude of the ‘gentry’ to work has changed. In those days it was thought more discreditable than otherwise to have a ‘job,’ unless it was political or military. Even now a man who does not work for his living is described in legal documents as a ‘gentleman.’

  Before dinner Dominic told Steven of his conversation with Lord Dilton. Steven was at first incredulous, though his incredulity towards Dominic’s activities had now worn fairly thin. He then expostulated with him about the absurdity of his thinking of marrying when he had no money and no occupation that was likely to bring him any, as he would presumably be at his art school for another three years. When he had taken in that Lord Dilton had voiced no strong objection, he began to see in this engagement the possibility of release from his most enduring anxiety. The Diltons at this time were very rich. They would presumably make a good settlement on Sylvia. He could not give Dominic much more than £300 a year, but together they should be able to live in modest comfort in the country. It was a pity that Colonel Rodgers was in the Dower House.

  At dinner Steven looked half amused, and then anxious as he wondered how much Lord Dilton would expect him to fork out, while Dominic behaved rather pompously, as one whose shoulders had become dignified with the responsibilities of manhood.

  In the morning Lord Dilton called to see Steven. He was extremely generous and said he would make their combined income up to £1,000 a year. Steven was gratified but wondered why on earth he should do this. Apparently Lord Dilton was one of those whose reactions to Dominic were favourable, and he probably thought that a young man who could ride over on a bicycle and with such complete aplomb ask a rich peer for his daughter, would get on in the world. He did not know that the Bynghams were accustomed to doing this sort of thing. It was agreed that as they were both so young the engagement should not be announced for a year.

  It was indeed a pity that Colonel Rodgers was in the Dower House, as now the eternal triangle appeared, but on the model found in ‘Daphnis and Chloe,’ not that in a modern French comedy. Dominic was satisfied with the arrangements made, and now that he had received recognition as an adult his impetuosity was less urgent. When he came down from London he spent most of his time at Dilton. He felt quite friendly towards Colonel Rodgers, especially as, although the colonel did not know it owing to the secrecy of the engagement, he would someday become his uncle by marriage. But he never went to the Dower House now, as he had a much greater interest than daggers and ants. I had to bear the brunt of this.

  My holidays were over, and on my way to the vicarage possibly a little late, I would find the colonel leaning over the Dower House gate with his watch in his hand.

  ‘You’re late this morning, young feller,’ he would say.

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid I am, sir,’ I replied, trying to hurry on, but all being fair in love and war, the colonel would not let me go.

  ‘Dominic coming down this week-end?’ he asked.

 
‘Yes, sir, I think so.’

  ‘Don’t you know?’

  ‘Well, yes, sir, he is.’

  ‘Tell him to come over to see me.’ Colonel Rodgers spoke with a gruff note of command, which contained, however, like the faint motif of a rhinemaiden behind a blast of Wagnerian chords, the moral weakness of his affection.

  In the tenderness of my heart I could not bear to think of the colonel’s spending the whole day, unable to concentrate either on his ants or his guns, while he pretended to himself that Dominic would arrive at any moment.

  ‘I think that he’s going to Dilton this afternoon, sir,’ I said.

  ‘What’s he going there for? He’s always there,’ he exclaimed angrily, and his prune-like eyes seemed to shrink and to turn in on his own loneliness. ‘If he’s after Sylvia, he’s wasting his time. My brother-in-law would not hear of it. She could marry the highest in the land.’ He said this more to make Dominic appear insignificant in relation to himself than to offend me. If I had not known of the betrothal I should have been greatly offended. As it was, I said in cheerful and deceitful argument:

  ‘Oh no, sir. Of course not.’

  Alice, when she gave a present, always tried to find out first what the recipient would like. She wanted people to have what pleased them. I wished that even Colonel Rodgers could have what he wanted. Although I was so religious, I was not necessarily moral, and it is a mistake to imagine that the two things go together. My own extreme chastity was purely aesthetic. I did not think deeply about the colonel’s attitude to Dominic. I only knew that he wanted to be comforted by him in his loneliness. After all he patted his dog, and I did not see that it would be any more vicious of him to pat Dominic, not that he was likely to have done such a thing. If he had a dream of fulfilled passion it would have been that he and Dominic should stand face to face with loaded revolvers, and then sternly saluting, shoot each other through the heart, leaving behind instructions that their mummified heads should be placed on the same mantelpiece.

  ‘Look, sir,’ I said, ‘if Dominic comes back to tea, I’ll slip across and tell you, and then you can come over. Or if he’s back late, I’ll ask Mummy to ask you to dinner, if you could come.’ I added these last words from politeness, as I knew that the colonel never had an evening engagement.

  ‘Ah, stout feller,’ he said, trying to make it all sound the most hearty and natural arrangement possible. He blew his nose loudly and went into the house.

  When I arrived at the Vicarage, Mr Woodhall reproved me for being late.

  ‘I’m awfully sorry, sir,’ I said, ‘but I was held up by Colonel Rodgers.’ Then I added with that extraordinary mixture of knowing and unknowing which affects adolescents: ‘He’s absolutely crackers about Dominic and I had to soothe him down.’

  I asked Laura if the colonel could come to dinner. Although brought up in the open house tradition, she was most hospitable, she now appeared a little vexed. Since the morning when he had delayed our picnic her attitude towards the colonel had changed.

  ‘He wants to see Dominic,’ I explained.

  ‘Why is he always chasing him?’ she asked. ‘Dominic’s not a girl.’

  ‘No, he’s not even like one, like some chaps,’ I said. ‘So there’s no excuse for a mistake.’

  Laura laughed, and ruffled my hair, and said that the colonel might come to dine if he wanted to. Miss Chambers was still with us, and Laura said that we might also ask Mrs Sinclair, a widow who lived in a small house beyond the village, and her daughter, and make up a little party. I ran back across the meadow with the invitation. My heart was full of that religious joy which comes from doing a kindness.

  All the circumstances of our dinner that night were delightful, except the demeanour of the guest who was the occasion of the party. The drawing-room at Waterpark looked beautiful at this time of day. Laura did not like the curtains drawn until the last daylight had died, so that in the windows framed in the faded gold damask curtains, the shades of the lamps were reflected suspended in the twilight above a bed of crimson tulips. Inside, although the room was warm and comfortable, there was also a slight sense of mystery. The roses on the chintzes and the deep colours in the old paintings were blended into a soft richness, and Miss Chambers had arranged two magnificent vases of lilac and irises. The fire which was lighted at sunset on most evenings while we were in England, was reflected in the walnut chests, and glimmered on the frames of the pictures and on the gilded classical motifs which relieved the white wooden panelling of the room.

  Colonel Rodgers was the first to be shown into this soothing place, but it appeared to have little effect on him. He was looking more ant-like than ever in his tight black dinner jacket, which had evidently been ‘built’ as he would have said, when he was even more spare in frame than he was at this time. He was clearly on edge, and every time the door opened he gave a quick, involuntary glance towards it to see if Dominic had come in. As Dominic had only returned from Dilton a few minutes earlier, and was still upstairs changing, the colonel began to wonder if I had fooled him with this invitation. He did everything he could, which was not much, to conceal his inordinate affection for Dominic, but at the same time he was resentful if he thought we ignored it in our social arrangements. His look of vexation increased as first Laura, then Brian, then Miss Chambers, then Steven and finally Mrs Sinclair and her daughter came in. There were now an equal number of males and females in the room and the colonel imagined the party to be complete. He was certain that he had been fooled, and he turned his prune-like eyes on me in a murderous glance. I was indignant that he should look at me in this way when I had only wanted to help.

  ‘It’s all right, sir,’ I said in a resentful voice. ‘Dominic’s here. He’s only late changing.’

  Colonel Rodgers turned away as if I were not addressing him.

  Mrs Sinclair had no carriage or motor-car, and could seldom dine out, so she was now full of charming pleasure, and praised everything.

  ‘Oh, is Dominic here?’ she cried. ‘How very delightful! We’re all quite in love with him. The colonel as much as anyone, I’m sure.’

  I was like not only Mercury, the messenger of the gods, and particularly of the Uranian Aphrodite, but like that mercury which is put on the backs of looking-glasses to make them reflect. I reflected in my own scarlet face the passion and shame of the colonel, which I had betrayed, and as when I had gone white at the sudden appearance of Lord Dilton at tea, everyone now stared at my flaming cheeks.

  ‘What’s the matter with you?’ asked Steven crossly.

  ‘I’ve just remembered something,’ I said. They looked at me curiously, wondering what could be in a boy’s mind to bring that colour to his face. Fortunately at that moment Watts announced dinner. Steven gave Mrs Sinclair his arm, and we trailed out in his wake to the dining-room. Dominic was in the hall, pushing his hair and his tie straight. He gave a general greeting to all of us, and a particular one to the colonel, who, however, ignored it.

  The dining-room was in the older part of the house, behind the drawing-room and the library, of which the windows were in the Queen Anne façade. It was long and panelled in oak, and most of the portraits were here. In their armour and wigs, their velvet and satin, they loomed behind the dinner table. Colonel Rodgers on Laura’s right was directly opposite Dominic, and it was against this dim rich background that he was compelled to look at him throughout the evening. Though I did not notice it at the time, in the shaded light of the candles, his face full of the repose of his love, Dominic must have looked indescribably beautiful, not now like an El Greco, but like some devout and radiant youth, glowing with the life of the spirit, in a painting by Bronzino, or by Titian of a young Vendramin in adoration.

  This only made Colonel Rodgers more angry. If Dominic had had a pimple on his chin and had looked depressed the colonel would have borne more easily to look at him. To relieve his fee
lings he began to talk about death at steeplechases.

  ‘Lot of grief at Aintree this year,’ he said.

  ‘Was there?’ asked Laura politely.

  ‘Yes. Never seen so much grief anywhere. You have steeplechasing in Australia, I suppose?’

  ‘Oh, yes, at Flemington on the Saturday of Cup week.’

  ‘Any grief?’

  ‘A little, I expect,’ said. Laura.

  ‘What are the jumps? Brushwood?’

  ‘I think so. Aren’t they, Steven?’

  ‘Ah, not really dangerous. You won’t get much grief.’

  ‘Our jockeys are killed sometimes,’ said Miss Chambers, defending the honour of Australia, and smiling at the colonel, but he did not respond, suspicious that the Flemington course was a disgustingly safe affair.

  When the ladies had gone back to the drawing-room, Steven sat beside the colonel for a few minutes, then he said:

  ‘If you will excuse me I want to write a short note for the post before we join the ladies. Dominic, pass the port to Colonel Rodgers.’ He glanced at Brian and me, indicating that we should follow him. He evidently wanted Dominic and the colonel to be left alone together to talk out their quarrel. Steven believed that people must act according to their natures and the breadth of his culture allowed for many different kinds of nature, though he was strict rather than otherwise in his moral standards.

  I was horrified to think what might be happening in the dining-room, but longing to know. Perhaps because I am Australian or half Irish, and to the Irishman everyone, high or low, rich or poor, is primarily a human being, I am prepared to gossip with anyone who shows a similar inclination. The next morning when Jonas brought my clothes, he said:

  ‘The old colonel was proper angry with Mr Dominic last night. They had a master row.’

  ‘Did they?’ I cried, leaping up in bed and clasping my knees. ‘What happened?’

  ‘Well, Master Guy, I be just going into the dining-room to clear, thinking ’em had gone, when I hears the old colonel say, “If you’m not faithful to your friends what is prepared to do anything for ’ee, you’m not equal to a dog what is faithful to his master.” ’